Senor Nice (25 page)

I grabbed my cigarettes. Palm leaves scratched the wall outside in a disturbing rhythm. The moon still shone weakly through the shutter slats and threw its light on a transparent lizard hunting a spider the size of a small saucer. Despite usually championing the underdog, I wanted the lizard to eat that spider. I wondered why I was more disturbed by
insects than reptiles. I lit a cigarette. The lizard and spider immediately disappeared. Cats padded across the roof, each step pregnant with anticipated conflict.

Fading moonlight gave way to bright sunshine as a chorus of roosters squawked raucously. A tropical rainstorm wiped out their din and the rhythm of the scratching palm. Ripe fruit thudded on the roof while dogs barked and children laughed as flash floods of sunshine punctuated the torrential downpour. I opened the shutters and blinked at a narrow irregular dusty street of tall colonial houses and villas with red-tiled roofs and walls painted in pink, green, blue and yellow washes. It looked like Lisbon. Joggers criss-crossed the cobbles on their way to the sandy waterfront, where fishermen mended nets and bikinied beauties drank from coconuts. Nearby were ornate places of worship, shopping malls and brick-built shanty towns. Distant high-rises sparkled like sugar cubes above opulent baroque facades, spires and domes. A fifteenth-century whitewashed church stood out like a cardboard silhouette. Salvador, a bit too dangerous and decadent, used to be the place for tourists to avoid, but was now beginning to reap the benefits of travellers’ appetites for something different and well away from terrorist targets. Scantily clad holidaymakers were already packing the bars, from which samba blasted and where the booze, particularly
cachaça
, is dirt cheap and always available.

Downstairs, the bounty of Brazilian nature overflowed from the breakfast buffet trays. There were pitchers of freshly squeezed fruit juice, plates of papaya, mangoes and pineapples, bowls of warm tapioca, sweet milk and cinnamon, cakes, rolls, jam and coffee. I ate until exhausted, then sat in the sun to finish my coffee, smoke a cigarette and possibly drop off.

A man with a gentle manner and a face full of smiles came to my table. ‘Excuse me, but I know you are the one who wrote
Mr Nice
, which I very much enjoyed despite my poor
English. My name is Gilberto. I am a photographer and often work for British publications. If you need anyone to help show you around Salvador, it would be my pleasure. In fact, tomorrow I am driving to Cachoeira. You are welcome to join me.’

I had read about Cachoeira, which means waterfall. A river port not far from Salvador where, 200 years ago, gold prospectors and merchants disembarked to load their possessions on to ox carts for exploration further inland. Ships sailing back direct into Lisbon took away their valuable finds.

‘Thank you, Gilberto, that’s kind of you. I would love to come. Perhaps you could also help me in another way.’

‘It would be my pleasure.’

‘Do you know anything about the existence here of a Welsh community?’

‘I know you are Welsh, of course, but you are probably the only one here in Salvador. There is certainly no Welsh community in this city, and I don’t think in the whole Bahia province.’

‘What about in Brazil?’

‘Well, Brazil is so big, anything is possible, but I have never heard of one. When did the Welsh come here and why? To be missionaries and compete against the Catholics?’

‘There might well have been a bit of that, but their main motive was to get away from the English and set up their own colony with their own religion, language and culture. The Welsh seemingly set one up in Brazil a hundred and fifty years ago.’

‘How would they have supported themselves?’

‘Either by tilling the land or digging holes in it to mine minerals, I suppose.’

‘It is true that many miners came from Europe to Bahia looking for work around that time, mainly to Lencóis to the diamond mines.’

‘How far away is that?’

‘At least a day’s drive. I can’t take you myself, I’m afraid; I have to be at my office every day. But there is a bus that goes there a few times a week.’

The next afternoon Gilberto picked me up from the hotel and drove off at a pace worthy of Ayrton Senna. We were quickly on the old plantation road to Cachoeira.

‘I love this place: the colours, the river, the mountains, the light and the people. Cachoeira is my second home and the only home of Irmandade da Nossa Senhora da Boa Morte – the Sisterhood of Our Lady of the Good Death.’

‘Sounds a bit heavy, Gilberto.’

‘It is. African religions are best preserved far away from suntan oil, beaches and volleyball games. Supporting them is my greatest passion, my life’s work.’

At Cachoeira’s bustling market goats anxiously hoped to evade sacrifice; cotton-stuffed voodoo dolls in colourful costumes dangled next to displays of vegetables, fruits, cheeses, spices, oils, juices, bulls’ brains and unidentified pigs’ organs. In the old days, the slave owners ate the meat and left their slaves with balls, offal and brains, resulting in a national cuisine now served everywhere, including the country’s most expensive restaurants. Wearing billowy cotton skirts and a lacy turban and tunic, an imperious mahogany lady with dancing eyes, high rouged cheekbones, an aquiline nose and languid hands covered a makeshift table with a white fringed cloth and set out several shiny tin pans of prawns, batter, dried beans, nutmeg, coconut milk, cashews and peanuts. By her side a cauldron of palm oil, heated by burning coconut shells, bubbled erratically. Beads, crosses and chains swung from her neck, and silver and wooden bracelets weighed down her arms as she fashioned batter and beans into pretty lumps of cholesterol and nectar.

Gilberto and I walked away from the market up a quiet lane and knocked on the door of a humble home bearing a white flag. Dona Filinha de Leman-Ja, the hundred-year-old high
priestess of the Sisterhood of the Good Death opened the door, grabbed me and gave me an enormous tight hug. ‘We have the same blood in all our veins. You are so welcome.’

We entered Dona Filinha’s soothsaying room, a china-shop of miniature bulls. Flagstones of five- and six-pointed stars shone from the floor. Sixteen shells lay on a white towel ready for divination. A massive mural of a beautiful mermaid emerging from the sea hung on one wall. On another hung a painting of a sexy squaw in the most revealing of feathered miniskirts fondling a jaguar while being watched by a monkey peeping Tom. She wore yellow knickers.

‘Don’t worry, Howard; personal interpretation is highly encouraged. Bond all you can in any way possible. There is no judgement or disapproval. It is all OK. And it will all get better. Now I have to bargain with Dona Filinha. She raises money for the sisterhood by modelling white robes and necklaces and bracelets of shells to satisfy photographers like me.’

We went to the kitchen of the church of the sisterhood. Food cooked here is highly sought after and given freely – sacrificed but not wasted. Outside, popcorn crackled, fireworks exploded and priestesses broke out in song, lighting cigarettes and puffing furiously. One sang a samba, enjoying the everyday naughtiness of the lyrics. No one bowed, signed the cross or genuflected, or showed any sign of humility. Exuding love and fond respect, the priestesses winked, hugged, kissed, held hands and flirted. One asked if I was single.

‘I like this religion, Gilberto.’

‘Then tonight, I take you to a Candomblé ceremony. Let’s go back to the car.’

Brazil has more Roman Catholics than any other country, but large numbers convert from Catholicism to Afro-Brazilian cults. Candomblé is the religion of the Yoruba from Nigeria, the provider of more slaves to the New World than any other
African tribe. According to Candomblé, mankind sprang from a single ancestor, some of whose descendants achieved divinity and were able to control disease, weather, the power of the oceans and other natural forces. Everyone has a spiritual guide, a protective
orixá
and during ceremonial trances, such as the one I was about to witness, the
orixá
s’ spiritual energy enters their protégés. Candomblé deities vary from humans with horns and erect penises to mischievous entities who delight in destroying happy marriages and promoting venereal disease. Transvestite and homosexual gods abound: one is the son of two male gods, another is male for half the year and female for the other half.

The Portuguese prohibited Candomblé and force-fed their slaves Catholicism, so its devotees concealed their
orixás
in the identities of Roman Catholic saints, continuing their African religion by covering it with a veneer of Christian ritual. And in due course Roman Catholic saints and
orixás
were honoured side by side, each gradually taking on the identity of the other.

Candomblé ceremonies are organised on
terreiros
, terraces or cleared plots of land near houses or small farms. Gilberto stopped his car outside a sprawling complex of huts and buildings decorated with glittering fairy lights named Bate Folha – Hitting Leaves – and walked past a few shrines towards the church. Birds swinging gently in cages suspended from trees nipped enthusiastically at pieces of fresh fruit. Leaves of differing shape, colour and significance, carefully split apples and stiff dark banana peel covered the ground. A paper plate of dried corn kernels, cooked beans and flour lay at the intersection of two dirt paths. A candle sat upright in the plate, and an empty bottle of sugar cane rum lay alongside it. Several unlucky but ecstatic worshippers surrounded the church, which was crammed.

Inside, fringed white crêpe-paper flags covered the ceiling. Vases of flowers, a statue of the Virgin Mary, a brown bottle of water, ceramic dishes and paper bags of bread covered an altar
in which were hidden stones containing the spirits of the devotees. Several young brides of the gods glided in like gentle, nervous waves. They wore white lacy blouses and colourful graceful skirts to just above their ankles. Scarves tightly wrapped their heads, stressing the dark bold beauty of their full faces and graceful cheekbones. Confident elderly women, supervising the ceremony, approached the girls, placed their hands on their shoulders, and gave advice and comfort.

Suddenly each of two drummers enthusiastically and ferociously attacked his conga drum. Their fingers frantically hit the leather, and the church exploded into an enveloping rhythm of wild percussion. The church doors were flung open, and an elderly priest, dressed in a white suit, white shirt, white tie, white socks and shoes, shuffled in slowly but still in perfect time to the rhythm. Following him were women dressed in carnival clothes sporting their hair in tight oiled curls, free-flowing waves and straight manes, as well as men dressed as scarecrows, trees and other plants. No one wore ordinary clothes. The brides of the gods began to dance with light steps, lifting their elbows and undulating their ribcages. Slipping into trances as if falling asleep, some nodded while others let the persistent drums take them over. Dreamy-eyed and well out of it, they danced extraordinarily gracefully while thrashing, shuddering, sweating heavily, swaying and sinking to their knees. The older women caught them before they dropped and eased them down.

One beautiful, slim girl collapsed with her head falling forward. Her turban slipped off, letting loose her wavy hair. One of the elderly women gently picked her up, pulled her locks away from her sweaty neck and helped her to the altar. The priest puffed his cigar, took her hand, twirled her in circles and enveloped her in clouds of smoke to identify the spirit. Names of various
orixás
murmured through the knowing congregation.

The drummers’ rhythm became frantic. With eyes rolled up and spit dribbling from their mouths, people whooped, shuddered, whirled around the floor, sang samba songs while making the sign of the cross, ran back and forth, and bounced off the walls. The all-in-white granny first aid team mopped brows, shouted and applauded. The church was metamorphosing into a rave club, and I was beginning to feel as if I had taken ecstasy: loving the beat, loving everyone. I suddenly understood it all: the importance of music, pretty clothes and food; the reverence for extravagance and embellishment.

A man in a straw suit stamped his feet and lunged forward, hooting and whirling around with his dark loose curls flopping over his eyes and the sweat flinging off his skin. With eyes half-closed, he began to waver. An old woman led him to the aisle as he jerked violently and then began spinning, elegantly bending forward and sweeping the air with his curved arm. He stopped, dazed, and the woman gently guided him back to his seat, took his face in her hands and chanted some words. Practitioners sitting on the sidelines sauntered up, cradled his face and blessed him as well. The priest picked up a small boy and lifted him high enough for the crêpe-paper fringe on the ceiling to tickle his face and provoke a cosmic grin. The ceremony ended as everyone returned to a waking state – happy, relieved, sweaty and shiny-faced. They stroked each other’s hair, embraced, tucked into the sacrificed food and walked out into the night.

Gilberto and I joined the silent but jubilant exodus into the gentle night air. I confessed to him that the experience had left me emotionally and psychologically drained and asked if he knew of a hotel in Cachoeira at which I could stay. The place had exerted a hold on me, and I felt unable to leave without experiencing the dawn. Gilberto said he understood exactly how I felt and drove me to the Pousada do Convento de Cachoeira, a former convent set around a courtyard with a swimming pool. Although the hotel was fully booked, the
manager knew Gilberto well and was eager to please. Gilberto and I exchanged telephone numbers as he and the manager led me to a room with frayed-wire spaghetti hanging from the roof beams. I thanked him warmly and promised to stay in touch.

I lay on the sagging, creaking metal-framed bed as feelings of unease and disturbance seeped into my psyche. I had never given speaking in tongues any credibility, yet now I had witnessed it fully. Was the rest of Candomblé also for real? It made sense that the religion of the first humans in Africa would also be the truest. I thought of my mother’s failing health and the inevitability of her death. I felt frightened and alone, then comforted and happy, then terrified. There was no chance of sleep. The magic of dawn helped lift my anxiety, as did the hotel’s breakfast, but I was still filled with trepidation and premonitions of impending doom as I boarded the bus back to Salvador.